Every funeral has a way of forcing us into conversations we rarely have with ourselves.
It strips away the noise of everyday life and leaves us standing before the uncomfortable realities of existence.
Whenever I attend a funeral, my thoughts wander from the profane to the sacred, from the metaphysical to the spiritual. I find myself searching for meaning in loss and wondering how society, culture and religion have fashioned ways to comfort hearts shattered by death.
These were the thoughts that occupied my mind as hundreds gathered to bid farewell to a gallant daughter of the Mandebvu family and a mother to many, the late Mrs Ester Halimani.
It was not an ordinary funeral. The elegant décor rivalled that of many weddings, transforming what is traditionally a sombre occasion into a dignified celebration of a life well lived. If funerals were to be remembered for their organisation, attendance and heartfelt tributes, this would surely rank among the most remarkable the constituency—perhaps even the district—has witnessed this year.
Vehicles that many villagers in Chizumba are more accustomed to seeing on television screens and social media than on their dusty roads lined the Halimani homestead. People from every walk of life travelled long distances to pay their final respects. The gathering spoke volumes about the impact one woman had made during her lifetime.
As I watched the proceedings, an unsettling question found its way into my thoughts.
Would people gather for me like this?
It is a question that death quietly asks everyone who attends a funeral.
Surprisingly, there was little of the prolonged wailing often associated with such occasions. Apart from a few overcome by grief, the atmosphere was characterised more by gratitude than despair. People celebrated the legacy of Madam Halimani rather than surrendering entirely to sorrow. Once again, another question surfaced.
Would my farewell inspire celebration or merely sympathy?
Among the mourners sat John Matibe, a man whose conversation reflected the same quiet introspection that occupied my own thoughts. We spoke at length. He recounted his journey through Mwenezi’s political history, explaining how he had worked with every Member of Parliament from the days when Mwenezi was a single constituency to its present three-constituency structure.
His words, however, were not merely historical recollections. Hidden beneath them was a deeper question.
Will anyone remember me like this?
He spoke fluent English with remarkable clarity, much to the amusement of educators Mr Mhango and Mr Phiri of Chingami, who later joined our discussion. Yet even as he spoke confidently, his eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, as though fearful that his words might reach unintended ears. It was a portrait of a man carrying unfulfilled dreams while wrestling with invisible fears.
Perhaps that is the burden many people carried that afternoon.
Some sought temporary comfort in bottles of beer and stronger spirits. Others quietly reflected on lives they had lived—or failed to live. One gentleman, seemingly speaking more to himself than anyone around him, muttered in Shona:
“Vanhu kuzara kudai… ini ndichadii?”
“If people can gather like this, what about me?”
It was not a question about attendance. It was a question about significance.
At funerals, tears rarely belong only to the departed. They are tears for abandoned dreams, broken relationships, missed opportunities and words left unsaid. They are tears born of betrayal, pain and regret. We mourn not only those who have died, but also the parts of ourselves that disappear with them.
Death leaves behind more than empty chairs. It leaves uncertainty. Those who depended on the departed wonder what tomorrow will bring. Families fear the unknown. Communities lose pillars upon which their hopes once rested. Every funeral, therefore, becomes a meeting place of tears, fears and dreams.
Speaking of tears, it would be impossible to return from this A View from the Mango Tree sabbatical without mentioning the recently concluded global football spectacle in the United States. Football, like life itself, offers no guarantees. Even the greatest can watch lifelong ambitions dissolve in ninety minutes. Lionel Messi and his team walked away from the final defeated, their dreams slipping away on the biggest stage. For champions too, tears become the language of dreams deferred.
Perhaps that is the common thread binding humanity together.
Whether at a funeral, on a football pitch, in politics or in our daily struggles, we all carry tears for what we have lost, fears about what lies ahead and dreams that keep us moving despite life’s uncertainties.
In the end, our lives may well be measured not by the wealth we accumulate or the positions we hold, but by the footprints we leave in the hearts of others. For when the final curtain falls, it is neither the grandeur of the coffin nor the number of vehicles parked outside that matters most. It is whether our lives gave others reasons to remember us with gratitude rather than obligation. After all, life itself is a journey suspended between tears, fears and dreams. This is just a view from the mango tree—and nothing else.
